


Finding Purpose

by one_irradiated_muppet



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Krampus Junkrat, M/M, Reindeer Roadhog, Roadrat Secret Santa, and I only used "fur" 17 times!, and yes also here be gratuitous descriptions of snow and trees, down with santa..?, gotta credit Mozg for reindeer roadhog's design, mmmhmm furry man, roadrat - Freeform, secret santa time!!, sorry shanks, very restrained
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 02:46:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17235884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_irradiated_muppet/pseuds/one_irradiated_muppet
Summary: Long has Mako trodden the frozen earth, robbed of his purpose, his humanity forgotten.





	Finding Purpose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArmsShanks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArmsShanks/gifts).



> My discord Secret Santa gift to the lovely [Armatage Planks Franks Banks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArmsShanks/), whose fics and art I HIGHLY recommend you check out!!
> 
> Hope you like it Shanks!
> 
> Thank you to [Silly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrunchles) for organising the whole shebang and for being my beta!

 

As soon as Mako steps out from his den, the North wind sets upon him, ruffling the thick mantle of his fur and making his skin prickle and twitch beneath it. He puffs up against the chill with a shake that ripples all the way down from his broad shoulders to his tuft of a tail, then straightens to his full height to survey his home. The night’s storm brought heavy snowfall to the glen, transforming its autumnal splendour to that of a winter wonderland. The pale sky above mirrors the snowy drifts and dunes, warning of more still to come. This suits Mako just fine; he is in his element now and the sole protector of these woods, as he ever and rightfully should be. Let the bears cower in their winter bunks, let the wolves move on with the migrating herds. Mako needs do neither - everything he needs is right here, and _here_ is all his.

Or... not. He inhales deeply, breath puffing back out in a rolling fog as a new scent catches his attention, stark against the new season’s clean canvas. It’s sweet and bitter when he parts his lips to taste it, like burnt caramel or sap bubbling up from too-fresh logs. Mako steps forward, head turning as he snuffles and huffs, hooves crunching through the fresh snow until they crunch on something else, sharp and shrill and out of place.

He pulls back and squints down at the outline his hoof has left in the bright cover. There’s a smaller crescent of ice beneath it, as if the snow there has melted and frozen again with intensity. He picks out another nearby, and without his own print to mar it he can see that it’s like that of a doe’s. But no doe he’s ever known has melted the very snow beneath her, nor left behind such a saccharine scent. The strange prints repeat, trailing off toward the trees and only then does Mako realise that to the side of each lies a different kind - that of a long, slim, human foot.

Recollection buzzes at the fringes of his memory, clouded by years of solitude, of wilful forgetting. To hone in on it would be like picking out a songbird in a snowstorm, and Mako shakes it off, resigns himself to the present and what this strange new presence means.

It’s time for Mako to mark what’s his.

The snow within the forest has fallen no less thickly, but lacks the pristine clarity of the glen; the winds which carried it here have wrought themselves upon the trees, twigs and fronds littered about. There are scattered tracks too, evidence of daybreak activity, hopeful foraging and opportunistic predation. It makes it difficult to follow the strange prints, and the criss-crossing trails create a network of scents too myriad for Mako to pick through.

Not that it matters.

Mako’s antlers have long shed their velvet, their bony tines the perfect tools to scrape and rake and rasp, gouging tawny wounds into tough dark bark. The heady, peppery aromas of fir, pine and spruce flood his senses, but they don’t plunge him into memory like they would have once. He isn’t here to lose himself in nostalgia, he is here to send a message, one the trees have borne time and time before; this forest is his, he has the means with which to defend it, and only fools wishing to run afoul of him should think to intrude.

By the time Mako’s instincts are satisfied, he’s spread his intent far and wide. He stops to drink from a bubbling stream, easily breaking through the icy cover which has formed across it. The cold water stings his lips and churns in his stomach, turning his thoughts to foraging.

Red berries catch his eye first, a shock of colour against the heavy sky, its mirror cracked here by jutting branches. The berries are out of reach - even to his antlers - by virtue of the fact that everything else is either already in his larder or the bellies of the other, smaller dwellers of the forest. He aims a heavy kick back against the tree’s base, but all that’s shed is the snow from its boughs, showering down over him in thick clumps.

Laughter rings through the still air like the tang of schnapps into a chilled stein, full-bodied and _sharp_. Mako’s hoof thumps back down as he bristles, nostrils flaring as they catch the strange scent from before. His eyes narrow and scan about, tufted ears twitching to pin down the sound - but it bounces from trunk to bough quicker than he can place it.

There’s something… familiar about it, like the scent had been earlier. Enough to stand his fur on end regardless of the snow melting into it.

Something scrapes the bark behind him and Mako jumps away, squaring his shoulders and bearing his antlers as the stranger makes himself known. He’s a grey shadow melting out from behind the tree, spindle-limbed and draped in rags and tattered furs. His eyes are the brightest part of him, greener than anything Mako’s seen in weeks and staring out from his pale face with unsettling intensity. His dark lips peel back in a fanged grin as he scratches his claws across the bark again, and then he’s crouching to leap and Mako lunges forward to meet him --

Bark and snow shower down as the creature-man scales the trunk in a blur, claws and hoof scuffing loudly, accompanied by the unexpected tinkling of bells. Mako turns to follow his movement, expecting to be set upon from above but his path carries him out across the branch toward the berries and it’s only once he’s torn them loose that he descends. Mako stabs forward again but the creature-man lands nimbly, just out of his antlers’ reach. Crouched in the snow, he grins even more broadly than before, his tail flicking behind him and the berries clutched in front of him.

“You want these, big guy?” He coaxes, the first five words Mako’s heard in as many decades or more. He rises up, almost able to match Mako’s height before he slouches forward again, claws plucking and drawing a berry to his lips as he offers the rest at arm’s length.

Mako’s trying to decide whether he should rend the intruder where he stands or leave him to his petty games when he instead reaches out to snatch the berries from his hand, catching himself off guard. But not the creature-man - with another shrill laugh he dances back before Mako can reach them, popping the single berry between his teeth so that it bursts across his lips.

At that insult, Mako’s body finally seems to catch up with his reasoning and he turns away with a snort - only for the creature-man to swiftly block his path, jingling merrily as he does. He holds his hand out again and it dawns on Mako that he must expect him to eat from his hand like a common beast. Mako’s own hands clench at his sides, but two can play at this game. He shifts slightly, circling as if he were the man in this scenario and not the bull - and the creature-man steps with him, too focused on blocking Mako’s path to think of the trunk at his back, of the antlers which will spear him to it.

Mako exhales a thick fog and bows his head to the offered hand, lips parted and dark eyes narrowed as he awaits the moment to strike --

Long nails rake through the thick fur at his jaw, startling Mako into breathing a deep lungful of the creature’s scent. There again is the bitter-sweetness on his tongue, the familiarity of it, crisper and clearer now that it’s so close and filling up his senses. The nails slide up into his mane, scratching boldly at the base of his ear, the berries forgotten as they tumble to the forest floor and smooth skin presses to his cheek. How long has it been since he’s felt the touch of another? A shudder runs through him, his eyes slipping shut as he slips back into memory…

Strong fingers adjust his harness before sliding up to scratch fondly between his antlers. Behind him he can hear the stamping and snorting of his kin, eager to be off now that preparations are done, bells jingling on the reins that link them. Suddenly he hears bells of a different tone, ones that clamour and clang, and he looks over his shoulder, through the shifting antlers and halo of fogging breath. He’s perched on the rim of the sleigh, the antithesis of everything Mako’s Master embodies, the dark to his light. Whip-thin and wild from the tips of his jet black horns to that of his smouldering tail, clothed in red like the wrath he smites upon the wicked, only the green glow of his eyes hinting of his pact with the Master. He grins as he speaks, voice high where the Master’s is deep, telling of the mischief he’s performed in the Master’s name.

Krampus.

To say that Mako hates him would be too strong. He is necessary, if not wanted, invited if not welcome. He does what the Master cannot, but to Mako it’s neither here nor there. He knows his purpose and will bear the burdens given unto him until time dictates he can no longer, until his shoulders slump and his back breaks, and his Master relieves him of his life-sworn duty.

That… was how it should have been. Time - and the Master - were never meant to move on without him.

“Look what he’s left you to become. Poor dumb beast.”

The words snap Mako from his trance and he realises he’s sunk to his knees in the snow, two sets of clawed hands in his fur now, Krampus standing above him. He wants to tell him to shut up, to prove him wrong but all that comes out is a grunt, the words out of reach after being unused for so long.

Krampus hunches down over him and for the first time he’s not grinning, his glowing eyes narrowed in pity and derision as he begins to rant.

“Do you miss him, brute? All those years of loyal service, and this is where you end up. A dumb beast, forgotten by the Master and the world that have moved on without you. We’re not so dissimilar you know. All I ever did was what he asked of me. He even took my colours in the end. Maybe I’ll take you in return, not that he’ll miss you now. He doesn’t miss any of us and neither do _they_. What a wretched world, where the worst that comes to them is coal and the threat of their name on a list.”

A growl builds in Mako’s throat and Krampus’ fingers move in response, stroking and scratching through his fur to soothe him. But the growl is only a precursor, readying his throat to release hoarse words at last.

“Why are you here?”

“You _do_ speak!” Krampus shrills, jaw dropping to reveal the dark red of his forked tongue between his fangs. His lips spread gleefully as he grabs the base of Mako’s antlers, wrenching his head back sharply so that they’re face to face, eyes wide and bright.

“Not so dumb after all! Tell me beast, do you know me? Do you remember my name?”

Mako’s nose wrinkles in annoyance and he almost bites back on his answer, just to deprive the man of what he so clearly craves. But now that he’s spoken, the words seem to come unbidden, like the torrent which comes with the springtime melt…

“Krampus,” he growls, and the man above him howls with joy.

“Yes! I knew you had to remember, that you would know,” he croons, hands slipping back down to drag through Mako’s fur as if in reward, claws scraping pleasantly across his scalp. He’s practically in Mako’s lap now, he’s so close, and when Mako reaches up to shove him back, the heat pouring off him causes him to falter, for his hands to linger against moth-eaten furs and the skin peeking from beneath them.

“Which one are you? Back before Blitzen, and Cupid, and all those stupid fucking sing-along names - who were you, beast?”

“Mako,” he replies, and then he understands. The need to hear it on another’s tongue, his name which he himself had almost forgotten.

“Mako!” Krampus cries triumphantly. “Mako,” he purrs, sinking to his own knees to bury his face in the fur of Mako’s neck, thin body thrumming, shaking so much that Mako can’t tell if he’s laughing or crying.

“Take me home, Mako.”

And so he does, slinging the strange creature-man over his shoulder, allowing his tail to snake around his neck and his hands to bury in the fur of his back. He doesn’t know why he does it, but it seems that until this moment there were so many things he didn’t know, that he’d chosen not to in order to survive. What he knows now is that the tinkling of bells and laughter which sound with every step through the silent forest feel so right. That the heat of the body which curls around his, the first he’s known in years without count, comes from someone who understands. Someone like him, though as unlike two beings they could be.

From without his den appears little more than a hollowed out hill, its entrance reinforced with rough-hewn logs and its chimney the same. Inside, it’s a little more homely, the walls compacted and the floor spread with evergreen fronds, a fire smouldering in the hearth and furs heaped on a raised platform for his bed. And yet there’s more than that, touches that speak to more than he is now. There are wooden shelves for his books, a table and chair and a chest beside the bed, all made by his own two hands, when civility was something he missed, craved. Krampus’ earlier words ring in Mako’s ears as he sets him down, as he sees the space anew through the other’s curious eyes. When _did_ he become a dumb beast? When did he last read the words in those books, take up his axe and work as he knows he can?

“Not too shabby at all,” Krampus tells him, once he’s explored every nook and cranny, from the pantry to the bed. That’s where he’s perched now, hands idly stroking the pelts of every bear and wolf to have challenged Mako, as well as one particularly territorial elk. Mako stokes the fire, though once he feels the impatient press of Krampus’ frame to his back, he realises the extra heat won’t be necessary.

“Tell me everything, Mako,” Krampus begs in his ear, one hand buried in the fur at his chest and the other tracing the points of his antlers. He coaxes him to the bed, sheds his tatters and wraps himself in soft furs and leans against him, silent for the first time as he listens.

And so Mako does, voice hoarse at first but continuing with growing clarity. He tells him of the stab which faded to an ache as the old world changed to new and their Master needed him no longer. How he and his kin were turned away from all they knew. How they’d drifted apart one by one until he was alone, no longer of herd or home, without purpose or goal. How he’d thought, so many times, how easy it would be to let a wolf or bear best him, to take his life where the passage of time could not. Yet there had been a pride in him which would not allow it, a pride which became instinct as the years flowed on, boiled down to something beyond what he had been, became everything that he _was_.

Krampus listens, otherworldly eyes glowing up at Mako almost without blinking. His claws have worked their way into Mako’s fur again, stroking and searching until they’re on his skin. He pouts when Mako extricates them, but is excited when he returns from the larder with a veritable winter feast. Soon the aromas of wild mushrooms and garlic rise from the fireplace, and Mako uncorks a bottle of something long forgotten in the back of his pantry.

Krampus sniffs with suspicion at the golden liquid Mako pours into his cup, but his scepticism soon shifts to excitement as he takes his first sip.

“Mead!” He exclaims with fervour before downing the whole cup in one. Mako’s surprised it hasn’t gone bad after so long, but the swig he takes is sweet and fragrant, a medley of honey and summer fruits. He laughs as he pours Krampus another cup and the alcohol loosens his forked tongue in more ways than one.

“Remember the _offerings_ ? Jugs of home-brewed schnapps, left out in the snow to chill… I might not have been loved like he was, but at least they _respected_ me,” he laments, the fire catching in his eyes and reflecting in the amber mead as he swirls it around his cup.

“You had a purpose,” Mako agrees, tearing his gaze from Krampus’ face to stir the cooking pot, watching the vegetables bob and sway. He’s about to comment about offerings of carrots, and how Krampus received more respect that he ever had, when the ladle is pushed from his hand and a long, warm body clambers atop his.

“I can have purpose again,” Krampus growls, his empty cup rolling away as he pushes Mako’s back to the ground. His cheeks are flushed, or maybe it’s the firelight lending his grey skin colour, dancing across his features as he leans over Mako. The furs have slipped from his frame, revealing the slightness of his shoulders, the dark hair which grows on his chest and lower down too, before it’s lost in the tangles of Mako’s fur. When Mako looks up at him again his features have buckled in despair, his voice coming in a soft whine.

“Give me a purpose, Mako…”

And that is something he can do.

Mako draws Krampus across the broad swell of his belly, down until he can cup his sharp features between huge hands and kiss him. Krampus bleats out a laugh, the glow of his crescent eyes all Mako can see until they close and then all he can do is feel, feel his lips, soft like goatskin, parting to let his warm tongue out and Mako’s parting to let it in. There again is that taste of caramel but it’s no longer bitter and burnt, only sweet like the honeyed mead they’ve shared, warming him from the inside out. It’s carried on a strange forked tongue, belongs to a man who’s stranger yet, yet nothing could be more right.

Mako rolls them over to pin Krampus between the pile of furs he shed and his own. The man’s been reduced to giggles, either by the mead or the way Mako’s taken the lead or a combination of both and he buries his hands in Mako’s plush chest, claws seeking through the thick layers to find his nipples. Mako rumbles appreciatively as they’re teased, then growls as they’re tweaked, only causing Krampus to laugh all the harder until Mako’s mouth presses to his again. His forked tongue is strange, distracting against his until he feels a hand wriggling between them and before he can halt them, seeking fingers have found the sheath between his legs.

He groans around Krampus’ tongue as long fingers stroke him, coaxing the head of his cock to slip free and when he pulls back the other’s eyes are two glowing crescents of giddy excitement.

“I won’t last long,” he warns gruffly, as Krampus’ fingers leave him for the business of freeing himself of the last of his clothes.

“Neither will I,” Krampus shrugs off the warning before hissing as the hard lines of their erections meet. His eyes flutter closed as he wraps his long fingers around the both of them and Mako’s surprised he can hear the words which follow over the sudden ringing in his ears, the pounding of his own pulse as the hand begins to move:

“Anyway. There’s always next time.”

 

The sky fulfils its promise, snow coming down in thick drifts outside the den, covering tracks of hooves and feet and ice alike. Within, the fire crackles and spits as the pot boils over, but none of it matters one bit to the two men, two creatures of old who have found one another in a cold world, and together found purpose.


End file.
